unrepressed childhood memories

I don’t obsess over many things anymore, and I think this is the reason.

I was obsessed with Michael Jackson. (Let me specify: pre-plastic surgery MJ.)

Memories were set off by an interesting series of events today. I heard the Alien Ant Farm version of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal. I’m not a huge fan of AAA, but I do like that song. Because I used to love the MJ version.

I would pretend I was Annie of “Annie, are you ok?” fame. Then I saw Moonwalker and my little girl dreams were shattered when I found out there was already an Annie.

I had a poster of MJ next to my bed, and I don’t even remember where I got it. I would kiss it goodnight. When I fell of my top bunk and broke my arm, MJ was watching. He didn’t even try to save me. Later that day when the ER doctor was giving my mom final instructions for my newly-casted arm, I was spotted practicing my Moonwalk. On seeing this, the doctor laughed and pronounced that I would be fine.

I had one white rhinestone glove, and I wore it. I wore it frequently. I wore it more than I wore my Supergirl cape, and I wore that a lot. I don’t remember where my glove came from either, but someone was obviously brainwashing me to be very pro-MJ. It worked.

Now for the sad part of my story. (Not that the stuff I just mentioned isn’t sad, but this is sad in a different way.) After my parents divorced, I lived with each half-time. This was easy since they still lived in the same small town. One day I was at my dad’s house, and he was out back burning the trash. No big thing, since that’s allowed in my dad’s “rural” neighborhood. I went out to find him because he had a phone call. I dropped the phone when I saw what was on the fire.

Mountains of des toys.

And there, a little way from the pile, was my one white rhinestone glove. It had been mostly charred unrecognizable, but I would know it anywhere. I picked it up and tried to save it, to no avail. The remnants of rhinestone fabric crumbled in my fingers. There was much crying and screaming on my part, and indifference on my dad’s part.

I would have been ok if my cherished childhood toys had been given away, or (preferred) kept in storage. But to have them burned, and happen across the pyre purely by accident. That fire scarred me - invisible burns on my heart. I still hold a grudge against my dad for something he barely remembers doing. It is still my #1 grudge, above even the time my mom let my parakeet Jicabob go free when I was on vacation*.

Now I’ve shared these memories with the world. I’m hoping for some sort of catharsis, but more likely I will be more prone to burst into tears upon hearing Smooth Criminal. Don’t do that to me, world.

*Recently my sister let it slip that my mom may have told me a half truth to spare my feelings. As if letting my pet go is better than telling me it died. Though my sister refused to give the real story, as I was still too close to the event (15+ years later). So I still hold it that my mom let poor Jicabob fly out the door and become a city bird.